Standing Together Through Tough Winds - An Edinburgh Journey
The other passengers seemed unfazed by the unsteadiness of the air. While, my sister and I turned to each other and laughed, 'EasyJet'. At one time, the bumps in the journey would have frightened me. Even, I may have cried. Though, the reoccurring turbulence in those moments that we believed to have finally settled resembles the life that my sister and I live. All I know for sure is, as long as we have each other, there is not a thing we cannot survive.
Expectations that I held for Edinburgh were not grand. Spectators had built my hopes prior to the trip to Rome I had endeavoured this past November taller than the Spanish Steps. Hopes that were left deflated. However, I perceived the Scottish city to be beautiful. It is its obscurity to anything I have witnessed before that I found captivating. The air felt like the space between pages in an old book.
Hopping off my first-ever tram ride, it was just before noon when my sister and I prioritised finding somewhere to eat. Something I quickly learnt about the city, walking around Edinburgh is similar to walking constantly on a stairmaster. Hills and hills. Even more hills. Although I try my best to steer from any chain restaurants that I can find in London when travelling further out, I was craving something meaty and substantial to feed all this cardio. There it was, a Byron. Comfortably, my sister and I sat in a beige booth and devoured burgers - hers topped with haggis.
Usually, I tend not to conduct much research before visiting somewhere new. Allowing it to consume me and form the path I must lead. Even though I aimed to visit Edinburgh castle, once I reached the top of the hill that homes thriving green, my fascination drew to what surrounded the monument. Regulars sitting on the, may I say, hazardous, ledge, inhaling the tall air and tobacco. Children sprinting and adults chatting. A solid sense of community. Unlike London, where it seems like all are for their own.
Following the castle, we took the path towards The National Gallery. Art is not of as much interest to my sister as it is to me. She far more enjoyed The National Museum, which we were to visit the following day. Though my sister engrosses herself in historic artefacts and what is true, my preference is the less factual. The visions that can endure interpretation and conversation. One without a period. Sitting on a bench towards the gallery entrance, we synchronised our playlists with music that complimented the environment - all Lana Del Rey songs. Simultaneously pressing the play button, we wandered and wandered. God, how I adored that moment.
In the aid to rest our sore soles, we sat upon a park bench with hot chocolate in between our frozen fingertips. The winter sun emerged from tired clouds and found our faces. As we watched the children run and the dogs walk, the conversation between my sister and I was mellow and comfortable. We needed this. I know we did.
Something else my sister insisted that she needed was a deep-fried Mars bar. After walking up a, seemingly, endless hill, we stood panting before a micro fish and chip shop. Greeted by two friendly men who took great pleasure in replicating our accents, my sister ordered the fried chocolate bar. One of the men was rather shy, while the other had enough confidence for the both of them. I must say, receiving attention when you are bare-faced and still a bit out of breath from the steep trek, it feels good. So, after a bit of a flirt and a group photo, we sat on a ledge for the grand reveal. What does a deep-fried Mars bar taste like? I will tell you what - exactly that. Imagine a Mars bar with a thin coating of batter that had a hinted taste of fish and chips.
Proceeding to search the city for whatever it felt we needed to see, The Writer's Museum stood grand, yet quiet, before us. Entering the cosy and concentrated collection of words, I began to ponder my own. A certain discouragement is produced when a writer writes. Is this an appropriate use of my time here if nobody shall read it? Then, I become amongst somewhere such as The Writer's Museum. Where I understand the power that words can have on a life - sometimes multiple. Impactful quotes engraved underneath the footsteps of those going somewhere they are not certain of. My purpose had never been so validated.
A vast amount of sights had been seen and discovered before the sun said, "Good night". Spontaneously, we trailed the high street to buy a new dress and some eyeliner - as we planned to dance into the morning. Although, after checking into our hotel only to get ready to emerge once again, we knew that dancing on tables was, indeed, not on the table. So, we hopped onto the tram with darker eyes and more perfume in search of somewhere to eat. Travelling to the last stop, Newhaven, the intention to find a fresh seafood restaurant was not fulfilled. Perhaps it could have been fulfilled after ten minutes or so of walking. But, standing amongst the isolated seclusion of Newhaven, walking was not desirable in the slightest. Stepping back onto the tram, we landed at The Shore where life seemed more present - as well as seafood. Though the restaurant we found ourselves in was not my sister's first choice, it was perfect. Oysters and duck for my sister. Risotto and steak for me. The food was outstanding and the atmosphere matched. There was not enough space to seat us in the restaurant, so we ate in the bar. Watching others dine on wine and conversation. It was perfect.
Following a night in the hotel where my sister fell unconscious before the lights were switched off, we did not wait for our alarms to sound in the AM. We got enough sleep and were ready to spend more time with the city. Emerging the streets at around eight o'clock in the morning with stomachs ready to be fed, we were met with locked doors and "closed" signs. With perseverance, our eyes met a stately hotel that welcomed us for breakfast. Sipping on coffee and eating French toast - mine sweet and my sister's savoury. Usually, I intend to eat the local cuisine when I travel away from home. However, the full Scottish breakfast was not for me. It was full, alright. With about twenty items listed underneath, including haggis, I chose to opt for something a bit lighter.
Over breakfast, my sister and I discussed our fatigue and that we intend to spend the day before we depart relaxing. However, before our flight back to England, we had visited multiple locations - including The National Museum. Personally, it felt far too large for me. As if multiple museums shared the same space. My sister agreed but, honestly, I believe she only cared about seeing a dinosaur. (She loves dinosaurs.) After that overwhelming visit, we headed back to The National Gallery for tea. It was there that I met what I believed to be the most beautiful man I had witnessed with my own eyes. My intention was to ask for his number, even though he most certainly must not have been single, but I used logic for once and knew that the distance might be an issue if I wanted to ever see him. Really, I think I did not want to face the inevitable rejection. Seriously, he was gorgeous. Finally, we attended The National Library. The exhibitions at the library were small. Honestly, my main attraction to the location was the seating area. There was nothing special about it, but I was very tired. So, we sat. We sipped. And, we barely spoke.
Commencing an early Italian dinner, we were left with a bit more time before we would get the tram back to Edinburgh Airport. In the drizzled distance, an electric guitar sounded, harmonising with a smooth male voice. Positioned outside the gallery, we sat on the wall and listened to him sing. Fleetwood Mac, Chris Isaak and his own originals. The moment was stunning. Enough for my sister’s eyes to form tears - which she blamed on being tired. ‘I know,’ I told her. ‘I know you are tired.’ My pride for her is immense. I hope she knows that, no matter how strong the winds may be, we will keep flying.
